I was preparing to give a corporate overview of my company to a group of supply chain managers at a hospital in the Midwest — something that I have done hundreds of times before. As the group entered the room, I paused for a moment from my preparations to try to get a read on my audience.

What I saw grabbed my attention and stopped me in my tracks.

They all looked alike!

Each and every one of the first four people who walked into the presentation was a 30- to 40-year-old male, who was between 5 feet 11 inches and 6 feet 2 inches tall, weighed 165 to 190 pounds, and was wearing a white shirt (sans sport or suit jacket) and business tie. None introduced themselves or even bothered to talk to me. It was as if I was not even there.

And they all seemed to be named Thad.

I quietly busied myself with the last of my preparations while waiting for the director to arrive. When he did (his name was not Thad, but he, too, resembled the rest), all the Thads became animated and bright.

I did the presentation, answered all the follow-up questions (each Thad asked a question that he knew would impress the director), and went about my business.

Throughout the day I had this feeling that continued to bother me. It kept going back to the presentation and the four Thads. They were all bright young folks. They were all extremely impressed with themselves and their business cards that had MBA after their names. That’s not what bothered me. What bright, young, upwardly mobile young man or young woman is not totally self-absorbed?

They’re supposed to be. At that age it’s part of their DNA.

No, it was something else — something that I couldn’t put a finger on.

After work, I had dinner, returned to my hotel, did some more work and went to bed. At 5:30 a.m. I was awakened by the telephone. It was my wife.

"Do you know a woman named Barb Demler," she asked.

"Sure," I replied. "We used to work together at VHA Supply Chain Consulting back in the late ’90s."

"Well, she called last night at 4:30 in the morning and left a message that Shaya was having heart surgery. She said that he was afraid that the outcome was not going to be good and that she knew you two were friends and wanted you to call him. She left her number. Maybe you should call her back."

You may recall my friend Shaya Romey. I wrote an article about him a couple of years ago. He has had a history of heart problems, so the news of another was not surprising.

After finishing the conversation with my wife, I called Barb. She answered with the gravelly tone of a 40-year nurse who was used to being in charge of the whole world.

When she heard that it was me, she relaxed and we talked about her, what she was doing, about the times we had while working together at VHA and, of course, about Shaya.

Barb is retired. She lives with her husband in Oshkosh, WI, and she is happy not to be traipsing around the country solving problems. She told me that she reads my Baseline columns religiously when they come out because she likes to hear stories about the old days — when we used to have fun while we were getting the work done. We talked about Shaya (I learned that things were probably not as grim as my wife had indicated) as well as many other former co-workers.

As I was about to hang up, Barb said something that caught my attention.

"I don’t miss being on the road. Know why? Because all those young kids out there look the same. They’re all bright, and they all think they’re going somewhere, but they don’t act like people. I don’t miss that. Being with friends was what I liked about my job. I think that is being lost today."

After we finished talking, I called Shaya, discovered that he was doing just fine, thank you, and then I reflected on what Barb Demler had said about the folks in today’s workplace. My thoughts took me to the four Thads — each of whom looked as though he had been made from the same stamp — the only difference being a different colored tie. They were all bright. They knew terms that at their age I would never have presumed to understand. They were all out to maximize their career paths and their investment portfolios.

But they all seemed sterile, empty and devoid of character or personality.

I tried to reflect on my life — to see if I ever was a Thad. I couldn’t have been. I came up through the ranks of working class people — nurse’s aides, storeroom clerks, SPD workers — people who worked hard and brought big personalities to work with them. I didn’t get my MBA until I was 43 and even then I didn’t have time to get consumed with my newly-earned status.

I felt sorry for the Thads.

And I hoped that at some point during the remaining 30 years of their working careers they might look around and understand that what makes healthcare a different — and most honorable — career path is that it’s all about the people you meet along the way — the patients, their families, sales folks and most of all the surrogate family you forge with your co-workers.

I prayed that someday, Thad’s wife might call and tell him that Thad called to let him know that Thad was going to have surgery and that he was worried about him and perhaps he should give him a call…

I’ll be seeing Shaya this Spring, and I hope to see Barb Demler, too.